


It Was Worth A Wound

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets hurt, Sherlock freaks, Viri fails at subtly inserting book!Canon. Again, could be taken as gen or pre-slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Worth A Wound

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a reply to LJ user meadowlark527's prompt on the kink meme, here: http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/575.html?thread=74815#t74815
> 
> Also transferred from Viridian_Violet at LJ - I am making my escape!

It happens frighteningly fast. One moment the criminal is restrained, apparently cuffed, spitting curses and fury at Sherlock as he is pulled away, eyes blown wide by the cocktail of drugs and alcohol – chemical bravery – churning in his blood. He's a boy really, little more – brilliant, but young enough to have made mistakes, whether intentional or not. A boy, young, but horribly, horribly dangerous, as the sudden lunge, the flash of silver, and the muted bang of a bullet testifies.  
Beside Sherlock, John freezes, one foot in the air, half-lunging towards the boy, a soldiers instinct kicking in before anyone else could react.  
But not fast enough – because now he's twisting in mid-air, his leg buckling as it completes the step, doubled over, his hands pressed over his chest, eyes dark and shocked and fixed on Sherlock.  
And the world has gone from normal ( _for them at least_ ) to terribly, terribly wrong, because this was not how the case was meant to end. John was not meant to lie, bleeding on London's streets, face pale in the darkness.  
Genius – _hah!_  
He hadn't seen this one coming, had he? Of all the calculations he had made, of all the likely outcomes, he had never foreseen this. Never.  
A raw, wounded scream tears free of his throat and the gun goes flying across the tarmac, skittering into shadow as the boy hits the floor hard beneath Sherlock's weight, head slamming into the wet ground. He is limp, dazed beneath the older man's weight, putting up no resistance – but Sherlock acts as if the boy is still armed, still trying to escape, rearing up and slamming his fist into the little brat's face over and over again, until several sets of arms drag him away, and he becomes aware of Lestrade shouting in his ear.  
 _'Sherlock! Sherlock, enough! You're killing him!'_  
He staggers away, knuckles already red and beginning to swell, and drops to the floor beside John. The doctor's eyes are glazed, his face white and pinched with pain, but he watched Sherlock with a heavy, unwavering gaze. Donovan is on her knees beside him, her jacket wadded up and pressed over the wound, her hands stained with John's blood, and Sherlock snaps at her, gathering the fallen man against him.  
'Don't touch him!'  
'You have to put pressure on the wound!' she snarls back, even as she cringes back from him, terrified at the sight of the freak finally, finally, _freaking out._  
'Get _off_.' Sherlock growls, and he knocks her hands away, replacing them with his own. He presses down hard, probably harder than he should, but if that's what it takes to hold John's life in his body, he'll do it. He'll do anything.  
John convulses beneath his hands at the harsh new pressure on the blistered entry wound in his chest. He wheezes, and Sherlock lets up slightly, enough to make breathing easier, but John's lips are turning blue, and his breath is rattling horribly in his chest.  
'Don't you _dare_.' Sherlock tells him, high and indignant. 'You _invaded Afghanistan_. You're not _allowed_ to die here! That's not what's meant to happen!'  
John makes a ghastly wheezing sound, and Sherlock realises in disbelief that the bastard actually has the temerity to laugh at him, even as his blood soaks through Sherlock's gloves.  
'Don't laugh.' he says, irritated. 'You're not allowed to, you hear? You're not. You're mine. I need you, so you're mine.'  
That makes him stop the grating, morbid chuckling at least, replacing the blood-flecked grin with something more sober and intense. His hands are weak, but not shaking – even the occasional tremor in his left hand has vanished now, ironically - as he lifts one high enough to press it against Sherlock's temple, a heavy, comforting weight. His breathing is too shallow to form words – _the shot has damaged his lungs and where the hell is the ambulance, John is dying here in his hands and he can't stop it_ – but the expression in his eyes says a lot.  
 _Calm down. It says. I know I'm yours. I'm not going anywhere._  
It says a lot of the things they haven't let be said before, and Sherlock curses himself seven kinds of fool for letting it come to this.

 

When the ambulance arrives, Lestrade has to physically pry Sherlock away from the stretcher, the only person not too afraid of the wild-eyed man to approach him, lay hands on him, wrap a blanket round his shoulders and bundle him into the back of the police car, peeling away from the abandoned warehouse where the boy had been cornered and tearing away after the ambulance in a screech of burning rubber. Sherlock slumps sideways across the seat until he is curled awkwardly, all long legs and bony elbows, beneath the blanket, the scratchy material drawn over his head like a child hiding from the dark. He cups his hands – gloves sodden with crimson – together in front of his chest, as if holding something precious, and wishes he was back in Baker Street, wishes he had never taken this damn case.

At the hospital, a nurse takes one look at him and whisks him away into a side room, effectively bullying him into stripping off his coat and scarf. Sherlock obeys her distractedly, trying to see past her into the corridor as if John will come past at any moment, miraculously healed. The nurse throws her hands in the air and Lestrade takes over, unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt and replacing it with a second-hand knitted sweater from the bag of spare clothes the nurse had put on the chair beside them. The knees of his trousers are soaked and bloody, so those have to come off too – Lestrade undresses him like he would a small child, gently and perfunctory, pulling a pair of baggy jeans up over his legs and doing them up with quick, no-nonsense fingers – but when it comes to removing his ruined gloves, Sherlock balks, looking at the detective for the first time since they had enetered the hospital.  
'No...' he said dazedly. 'I have to keep them on.'  
Lestrade rubs a tired hand over his eyes and sits down on the cot beside Sherlock, pitching a blanket round his shoulders. Sherlock eyes it in some confusion, but decides not to argue.  
'Why do you have to keep them on, Sherlock?' he asks patiently, keeping his hands curled gently around Sherlock's wrists so that the other man cannot pull away.  
'Because.....because....'  
There's a reason, he's sure there's a reason, but he can't manage to think of it. He looks at Lestrade in distress, and the detective chews his lip, rubbing soothing circles into Sherlock's wrist with his thumb, even as his other hand gently tugs the sodden material away from his skin.  
'You can take them off, Sherlock.' he murmurs gently, talking in a low, constant stream as he removes the gloves. 'He's not in your hands any more, so you don't need them, alright?'  
Ah. Of course, what was he thinking?  
Lestrade sees the expression on his face and pats his shoulder gently, tucking the blanket tighter around him.  
'It's alright, Sherlock. You're in shock, that's all.'  
'I am not.' Sherlock says automatically, indignant. 'Is that why you keep putting this – I'm not in shock, I don't need a damn blanket. What is it with the emergency services and their obsession with blankets?'  
'Sherlock.' Lestrade interjects, heading him off before he can really build up steam. 'You're shaking.'  
Sherlock stares down at his fingers – long, pale, and sure enough, trembling – and blinks several times.  
'Oh.' he manages. 'Oh, I see.'  
Lestrade mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath and tugs off his own coat, tossing that around his shoulders as well and drawing up the hood.  
'Just sit here, alright?' he says gently. 'All we can do now is wait. He's in good hands.'  
'Not the best.' Sherlock disagrees, and then laughs morbidly. 'Hard to be the best doctor in the world you know. Means you can't treat yourself.'  
'Is John the best then?' Lestrade says, humouring him. Sherlock stares at him blankly.  
'Of course he is. He's mine.'

* * *

It's some ungodly hour in the morning when they let them into John's room. He's pale, the open hospital shirt showing the bandages that encase his chest, but he's alive and breathing without help, watching them through dazed eyes. Sherlock leans over him, inspects the bandages and feels for fever, while John looks at him confusedly, half-asleep and weak.  
'Go to sleep.' Sherlock commands. 'You shouldn't be awake, go to sleep. Stupid doctor.'  
That earns him a wry grin, but before he can scold the other man, his eyes slip closed and his breathing evens out as much as it can.  
Sherlock settles himself kneeling beside the bed, his folded arms resting on the mattress, chin propped on them, staring unblinkingly at John. A nurse tries to convince them to go home and sleep, but Sherlock ignores her completely, and Lestrade must have dealt with her at some point, because the room goes silent. He glances sideways to see the detective sprawled awkwardly on a chair, eyes closed.  
The room is peaceful, quiet. Sherlock stretches out a hand so that his fingers rest lightly at John's neck, brushing over the powerful thud of the sleeping man's pulse, and closes his eyes, lulled into a doze by the steady, reassuring beat.

 

He isn't sure what time it is when he wakes again, rising slowly from exhaustion. He is still kneeling by the bed, his face pillowed on his arms, but there is a warm hand resting against his hair, gently soothing as a murmured conversation buzzes around him.

'He flipped out completely. I've never seen him act in such a way.'

 _Lestrade's voice._

'I saw. He's unpredictable, certainly.'

 _John's voice. Low, raspy, tired, but warm and strong despite it._

'It wasn't just then.' Lestrade confides. 'Afterwards, when we got here – he was completely in shock. It was like dealing with a traumatised child. He wasn't crying or shouting, or any of the other ways I would have expected Sherlock Holmes to lose his composure. He just....watched. Ignored everyone but me, and that was only when I prodded him into replying.'

'I must have startled him.' John murmurs, and the hand in his hair tightens protectively, carding strong fingers through the curls.

'More than just startled, I think.' Lestrade says dryly. 'How are you feeling?'

'Sore. Tired. Same as last time I got shot, really.' John replies, but there's laughter in his voice. 'It was worth it, though.'

Sherlock stays mostly still, but his hands tighten in the sheets. Worth it? How was any of this 'worth it'?

'How do you mean?' Lestrade asks curiously, sounding as baffled as Sherlock feels. John shifts on the narrow bed, as if suddenly uncomfortable.

'It was worth it to see that he cared.' the doctor says finally, coughing slightly. 'Just for a second, I could see the heart behind the brain. I think you're right, Lestrade. He's a brilliant man, and he's on the road to being a good one.'

'Well don't go making a habit of it.' Lestrade warns him good-naturedly, the chair scraping as he gets to his feet. 'I've seen enough of flipped-out Sherlock to last me a lifetime. I need to get back to the station – call me if you two need anything. Sherlock has my number.'

'Thank you.' John says quietly, and the door slides shut behind them.

There is a long silence, and then he sighs. 'How long were you awake, you brat?'

Sherlock moves slowly, lifting his head from his arms stiffly and looking up at John. He is reclining against several pillows, still pale, but very much awake – and slightly embarrassed, if the faint flush across his cheeks are anything to go by.

Sherlock stares at him, and knows what he must look like – his lips are pressed into a thin line, and he can feel them trembling. He knows he is pale, paler than usual, with dark shadows beneath his eyes. And he knows that John recognises what it means, because his eyes widen and soften, and his hand returns, gently pressing Sherlock's head down until his temple rests against John's leg, and curving over the nape of his neck, rubbing gentle circles.

'Alright, Sherlock.' he says quietly. 'Alright. Shhh.'

Sherlock inhales deeply, and manages to grit out against the burning in the back of his throat.

'Next time you feel the need to know you are important....to me, please... _just ask_. Nothing is worth _this.'_

John's fingers card through his hair, gentle and reassuring. 'Shhh. Alright. I understand.'

Sherlock closes his eyes and finally, finally feels like the world is back the way it should be, after a brief detour into insanity – _because John isn't going anywhere._

**Author's Note:**

> And, the fabulous LJ user chibitoaster drew me comment!art - http://www.chibitoaster.com/holmes_watson/sherlock_john_kink01.jpg
> 
> (so cute)
> 
> If you want to tell her how awesome it is you could always dro by www.chibitoaster.com and leave her a message ;)


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